


A Common Folly

by royal_chandler



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-23 22:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/pseuds/royal_chandler
Summary: Alongside the growing skirt of daylight, a miserable hangover had greeted Tony the next day. Steve sputtering through awkward morning-after talk had only made it worse, his hands a busy flurry in Tony’s face and dizzying. To save himself the trouble of lengthy jail time, Tony had smothered him with a cotton-dry mouth rather than with a pillow he’d been half-seriously contemplating. And after that? Well Tony discovered that he quite liked kissing Steve and being kissed by Steve.





	A Common Folly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kellebelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellebelle/gifts).



> For kellebelle! Thank you for your lovely prompts. I hope that you enjoy this fill and have a Happy Holidays ♥

Face half-mashed in a pillow, Tony wakes up to a finger tracing patterns down his back. His brain still sluggish with sleep, he lazily follows the invisible line Steve draws on him, how it goes lateral, slants upward, and then straightens to the left. Curiously, the shape grows a tail.

“Is that the Big Dipper?”

Humming agreeably, Steve continues with the constellation. “To be fair, it’s right here already. You kind of have to squint at it and it’s a bit wonky but there’s a portion in the middle of your back, this smattering--” Steve smooths his hand over said region, lightly brushing, and Tony has to fight against a shiver, “--it’s just like it. It’s pretty amazing actually.”

“Alert the eleven o'clock news. That’s me in general, babe,” Tony quips, playfully pushing back into the open curve of Steve’s front and the thickening hardness there. They’d crashed in Steve’s bed which is a couple sizes smaller than Tony’s, so it’s easy to get close. Aches from yesterday’s fight in Midtown are wrapped over with new ones from the night before's two breathless fucks but Tony can get up for another go.

Steve hums again. He presses a kiss to Tony’s shoulder and trails a few a short distance down his arm, his hand moving to Tony’s flank and over his hip.

“They’re fading,” Steve says muffled by Tony’s skin and sounding north of regretful. “Your freckles. Going away with summer it looks like.”

And that’s a tell-tale of time. It was near the end June that they first fell into this thing that has no name. The last two left upright after a loose camaraderie among teammates at the facility, the moment had been brewed with Tony’s whiskey and mead that had accompanied Thor on his visit from Asgard and promptly found itself in Steve’s possession. It’d been fashioned with hands and eager mouths that only left each other long enough to offer propositions that were thick with intent and came in boozy-stereo.

Alongside the growing skirt of daylight, a miserable hangover had greeted Tony the next day. Steve sputtering through awkward morning-after talk had only made it worse, his hands a busy flurry in Tony’s face and dizzying. To save himself the trouble of lengthy jail time, Tony had smothered him with a cotton-dry mouth rather than with a pillow he’d been half-seriously contemplating. And after that? Well Tony discovered that he quite liked kissing Steve and being kissed by Steve even when sober, maybe especially. He’s also likes being touched by him, likes the way his fist fits over Tony’s cock and brings him to full-mast with clever ease.

"You’ve got a conference call with your department heads in about an hour, right?” It’s more of a statement than it is a question and it’s in a tone that Tony is practically wired to respond to.

“That is such a turn-off,” Tony says, a shitty lie-slash-groan that shades over into something far less dignified. “Not to mention, it makes it harder to avoid them when you know that. How _do_ you know that?”

“Doesn’t matter. I was thinking that a shower would be nice but if you’ve got your heart set on getting to the bottom of this…”

Tony beats him to the bathroom, nearly tripping over his feet in his scramble out of the bed. Showering together is not something they get to do often, them waking up together already a rarity. They’ve never done it in Steve’s shower and it’s glancing shins and struggling with the showerhead for a bit to get them both under its spray but it’s well worth it for a slippery Steve. Tony is spoiled for choice and Steve doesn’t hide his mutual feeling. Long lashes that are already dirty pool simply by existing are a total felony when they’re spiked and damp-dark, winging down and up unabashedly, go half-sloped.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Tony surmises, long and low and awed, helpless as Steve smirks and sinks to his knees. “God but you’re a sight.”

“A nice one I hope,” Steve says, all faux innocence. Jacking Tony in a wet slide, his lips skim the skin of Tony’s hipbone. It’s tender and turns obscenely so when Steve buries his nose in the juncture of groin and thigh, inhaling and groaning like he loves it. 

Stomach tight, Tony rakes his fingers Steve’s soaked hair. The pad of his thumb runs over the shape of Steve's thick brow, strokes the delicate shell of his ear, and then the slash of his cheekbone. Fondly, Tony remarks, “You say that like there’s a chance it’d be anything but.”

For that, Steve smiles up at him before softly curling his tongue under the leaking head of Tony’s cock. His mouth is wide and wonderful when he swallows Tony into unbelievable heat, sucking with the sort of eagerness and drive that’s ridiculous and so, so good.

Cursing under his breath that’s coming hard, Tony’s hips work in shallow thrusts. He rasps, “Feels so good, Steve. It’s too—jesus.”

In response, so well-versed in Tony, Steve pulls off. He grips Tony’s cock, working tight, fast, and relentless--hitches spilling out of Tony. With a spark in his eye and smirk that’s nothing but wolf-wicked, Steve reaches behind Tony’s balls with his hand that isn't preoccupied, teasing his hole before crooking just in with a blunt finger.

A blinding hot rolls through Tony and he could swear that his spine telescopes, melting in on itself as he flexes forward. Fuck-drunk and pleasure still curling in his fingers and toes, Tony watches the mess of his come stripe Steve’s jaw, catch on the pout of his bottom lip. White is stark against pink and short-living under the shower’s spray, the tip of Steve’s tongue that sweeps out to taste. 

“Come here. Up now,” Tony demands, greedy hands reaching down to Steve’s shoulders. Steve is helpful, rising smoothly to his feet and clicking their hips flush together with a grind. He bends his head down to suck on Tony’s tongue and the kiss quickly turns lush and deep, equal parts sweet and possessive. Tony runs his hands down Steve’s back until his fingers slide home to Steve’s ass, squeezing. “What can I do for you? What do you need?”

“Touch me,” Steve answers.

And Tony is more than happy to oblige, loves the feel of Steve’s cock long and thick in his hand, the way Steve instantly hums so contentedly. It’s addicting. Tony wraps a tight hold around him, tugging over and over again, smearing precome and water.

“There we go,” Tony says when needy noises leave Steve’s parted mouth. He nips at it, licks his way in. “How ‘bout it, baby? Come for me.”

Crying out, Steve spurts hot over Tony’s knuckles, stuttering into his hand. Panting, he presses their foreheads together and curiously smiles like he has a secret he isn't ready to share. “Tony.”

*

It’s remarkably good and easy.

Steve’s inexperienced but he’s a quick study, a flashfire of enthusiasm that bucks under Tony’s fingers and whimpers under his tongue. Steve’s demands dissolve into hitching gasps when Tony gets three fingers into his ass and Tony can’t get enough of the way he twists like a corkscrew, spilling the sticky mess that fills the heaving hollow of his abdomen.

And Steve gives as good as he gets, grows bold and brave.

Tony doesn’t mind being outfoxed in a sparring session when it ends with him on his back, Steve solid, broad, and rutting on top of him. It’s nice to pivot his hips under the welcomed weight, to feel them fit together perfectly before they trade handjobs, their fists furious and elastic waistbands cut across their thighs. It’s a literal thrill ride to be lifted from his office desk and fucked practically boneless against the wall, Steve’s strength infallible and unfaltering.

Steve is gorgeous panting hot clouds on the mirror of Tony’s bathroom with his hands splayed on the backsplash and his cock fat and heavy between his legs. He’s a dream when face-fucking Tony into the workshop’s couch, once doing it so well he’d broken the armrest. They can’t stop laughing about it because on top of everything, they’re friends.

For a while, it’s just good and easy.

*

Tony’s fashionably late entrance into the grand ballroom diverges slightly from the smooth strut originally intended. He walks in and like a tether, his eye catches Steve and abruptly the entire world record-scratches. He’s sure of it because how can the universe not stop and take notice of Steve Rogers, so gorgeously cut in a dark blue tux that angels would weep? Tony had picked it out so he knew that it’d look good when he'd handed over Steve's measurements to his tailor but not this _devastating_. Tony’s desperately caught between never wanting Steve to dress in anything else and wanting to rip it right off of him, gossipy patronage be damned.

Tony still hasn’t made up his mind when he strides over to Steve’s position at the bar where he’s nursing a club soda of all things. His tie is crooked and affection steals a few heartbeats from Tony.

“You shine up like a new dime, slick,” Tony says, draped in casual but his voice is marginally uneven to his own ears.

Steve tugs at cuffs that are flawlessly tailored. “Well that’s nice of you to say but I feel like a monkey in a suit. I thought you’d never show up. Where have you been?”

“I got delayed. Hey, what’s with the face? I did get delayed...by, you know, not wanting to be here.”

“We signed up for this gala together, Tony.”

“To be completely transparent, I was under the influence of an orgasm at the time.”

Steve gifts him with a flat and unimpressed look. Oddly, Tony finds it’s spectacular and he just grins. “Did the sycophants wear you down already or did you just miss me?”

“I’m not answering that.” Steve sighs, a bass note of defeat. “You know that I’m no good with this stuff, Tony. I've never had a talent for putting on a show and I have nothing in common anyone here.”

“And you do with me?”

Steve opens his mouth to respond but Tony kind of doesn’t want the answer so he speaks over him. “Think about it this way, it’s for a good cause. You like those, Cap. That’s practically your modus operandi. Just remember that the better you schmooze, the bigger the checks are and the more you’re helping the Annies and Oliver Twists of the world. Also this would probably help considerably.” He gestures to Steve’s bowtie. “You mind?”

“Oh.” Steve’s eyes shy away to the side and then back. “I mean, if you don’t care--”

“I don't.”

Steve clears his throat. “No then. I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

“Okay. Here’s another tip and then I’m gonna start charging. The first rule, and most important by the way, is to try not making a noose out of the tie. Jesus, you could put a tomato of out business right now,” Tony says, loosening the knot and re-doing it like a dance that he’ll never forget the steps for. Letting go is harder than it should be. “There. That’s better. You’re perfect. You're also the most earnest person I know. Stick with that and you can't lose.”

For a soft beat, they simply look at each other, gazes fixed.

“Thank you,” Steve says finally and those two words are the most tender that Tony’s ever heard him and what has always been an uncomplicated want shifts into something deeper, sentimental and burning between Tony’s belly and spine.

“Anytime,” he barely gets out, verbally weak in the knees. “So the demanding public beckons and I have to mingle for a minute. Are you good or...?”

Sheepish and still pink across the cheekbones, Steve laughs. It’s louder and self-deprecating and familiar; it breaks the moment. “You don’t have to hold my hand, Tony.”

And there’s the dilemma. Tony really, really wants to. He twitches his hands back into his pockets, cocks his head to the side and uses up what he calculates to be five seconds of smooth before panic sets in. “I’ll be back soon then. And maybe after this is done, we could head home together. I could see you to your door. Make up for my tardiness.”

"That doesn't sound too bad," Steve says and Tony bids an abrupt leave.

Charming a trio of cardiothoracic surgeons and a world premiere violinist on his way with nods and hums in all of the right places, Tony escapes to the balcony and the crisp, non-claustrophobic air. He rubs at his sternum as if he can will what’s underneath to calm the fuck down.

It takes twenty minutes of that and running equations for him to feel like he’s no longer being lit from the inside. Story of Tony’s life, it’s for naught because once he returns to the ballroom, he spies Steve immediately once again, just as the other man is giving away his phone with a relaxed smile to a young redhead far more age appropriate and probably kinder than Tony.

The want formerly known as uncomplicated snarls.

To quiet it, Tony snatches a glass of champagne from a passing member of the waitstaff. Sipping dutifully and manufacturing his expression into one of engagement, he rejoins the group of surgeons that has doubled in size since he left.

*

“Is this seat taken?”

“It’s a free country supposedly. Not to mention, you live here so you can do whatever the hell you want.”

Tony's surliness doesn't discourage Steve and he didn't expect it would. Next to him, the couch gives and there’s a scratch of pencil against paper.

“What are you watching?” Steve asks after a long stretch.

Tony looks up from his tablet and sees a basement’s side wall getting demolished by a sledgehammer, the destruction muted. He doesn’t even remembering turning the tv on. He blinks at it in an attempt to divine some meaning from it. “Home Improvement,” Tony hazards.

Steve is watching him. Tony can feel it, disbelief and concern like heat rays out of each pretty blue eyeball. “When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

“Um.” This Tony has to get right. He tries to think back but unsurprisingly, Steve came prepared.

“Because Bruce says that you’ve been up watching tv every night for the last three days and whenever I knocked on your room door, you weren't there. I went down to the shop yesterday when you were out with Rhodey and your afghan hasn’t moved from where it was the last time I was down there. Which was last weekend.”

Tony pokes hard at his tablet. “I’m working on a project.”

“What project?”

“An unnamed one.”

“Tony.”

“Don’t ‘Tony’ me. Yes, it's three AM but three AM happens to be me at my best so. And I'm not doing anything wrong here,” he says, and he fails at keeping his bitterness behind his teeth. 

“Did I?” Steve asks and it somehow wrings _Tony_ out. “You’ve barely spoken me since that gala and I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you.”

Tony rubs his eyes because he doesn’t want to talk about this but it looks like it can’t be avoided. “I was getting out of the way, Steve. You’ve just always struck me as a one person at a time type.”

“That thing, where you start a conversation without me? You're doing it again.”

“I saw you talking to that woman at the gala. The one you gave your phone number to, Steve. I was trying to do the right thing and step aside. It seemed promising.”

“Promising?”

“You appeared to be having a good time. She looked...swell. That's your type, right? Not too mention she’s beautiful. So why not?”

“Well I think that her fiancée would probably have something to say about it,” Steve replies, dry. “I gave Daphne my number because she’s an engaged to an archivist and I wanted to see if there was something that he could help me with. I gave her my number so she could reach me.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You could have asked, Tony. We’re friends, right? I like--” Steve hesitates briefly before continuing, seemingly foritied. “I like what we do. I like it a lot but that doesn’t mean more to me than your friendship. You can’t stop talking to me without at least letting me know why. And I wouldn’t start something without letting you know. If there’s ever anyone, I’ll tell you. You’ll be the first person I’ll tell. I didn’t mean to worry you but you’ll always be my friend first and foremost.”

Tony knows--he _knows_ \--Steve means well but the good intentions don't curb the sting of those words. Tony will never be ready for that day.

"Are we alright?" Steve asks.

Tony can only nod.

Steve’s genuinely pleased expression then clears to one of expectancy.

“I actually do have a project I’m working on,” Tony insists.

“That’s fine.” Steve pointedly removes his sketchbook from his lap and tosses it onto the coffee table. “You can lie down and work. You’re best multitasker that I know.”

Tony rolls his eyes but two can play at that. He kneads the thick of Steve’s thighs and delights in the squawking gooselaugh before he stretches out with his head in Steve’s lap.

“You’re ridiculous. I'm not meant to be fluffed because I’m not an actual pillow.”

“Have you tried your lap? Gotta tell ya, you could outsell most loveseats.”

“I'll make sure to add that to my CV. Go to sleep, Tony.”

“I am working,” Tony says even as he feels himself fighting the weight of his eyelids. Absently, he thinks to ask. “So whatever happened with the archivist?”

“He’s still looking. The chances weren’t that great to begin with, though, so I don't have my hopes up.”

“What is it that you want?”

Steve doesn’t reply to that and simply moves his fingers through Tony’s hair like it’s a fond habit. With the amount of time that’s passed since the start of this thing—that apparently didn’t need to stop—Tony supposes it could be just that. He dozes off just as Steve’s thumb brushes against his temple, stroking there faintly.

*

A building collapses on Steve and this time he’s without the shield.

That morning Tony had laughed Steve out of the café they frequent every so often.

“Oh Christ, you are _so_ old. Go get your paper, Rip Van Winkle. You’re making me sad.” Tony had said. “Shoo, shoo.”

The newspaper stand had been right outside of the café but the building where the bomb had detonated two blocks away. And with a headstart--it’d taken Tony too long to realize what had happened--Steve was already inside, saving lives with no thought for his own.

Weeks later, the smell of smoke won’t leave Tony and neither will the sight of Steve, his lips stained with blood and the extent of internal damage so critical he’d been kept in the hospital for several days.

Here in his bedroom, carefully moving over and in Steve, Tony can’t unsee it. He can’t unrattle that rude laugh from the back of his head. Under him, Steve watches Tony like sees right through to the other side of him. He twines their fingers near the headboard, a tight hold that clenches with every cry.

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t,” Steve says, lips not leaving Tony’s own, salted and sure. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Tony chokes out a sob that feels pulled right out of his bones.

Tony doesn’t deserve Steve but he’ll try. From now on, he’ll try.

*

“Hello, am I speaking with Daphne Pike? Ah, wonderful! This is Tony Stark. I was hoping that you could do me a favor.”

*

Christmas Eve is the communal floor festooned with everything from garland and tinsel to baubles. To Tony's abject horror, there are elves on shelves. Carols play in the elevator and somehow every room smells like spice or pine cones without a single candle in sight. There are actual stockings on the mantle and someone has been stringing pipe cleaners with tiny bells and wrapping them around doorknobs. Every time Tony clips one off, another appears. It’s worse than the glitter that’s going to to have to be professionally vacuumed out of the carpets.

Christmas Eve is frankly obnoxious because Steve is That Guy and Tony’s heart has long unfolded to a truth that feels as permanent as evergreen. And it must be love because Steve’s in the kitchen covered in flour-handprints like some sort of bakery bandit, with loud fuzzy socks on, the sleeves of a hideous sweater shoved up his glorious forearms and Tony isn’t running in the other direction.

Christmas Eve is Tony willingly risking food poisoning because Steve landed on dessert when he spun the holiday assignment wheel and no one had the good sense to demand a re-spin.

“How is it?” 

_Fucking awful_ is on the tip of Tony’s tongue, alongside the sour taste of too much vanilla extract.

“Great,” he says instead as his mind thinks on six different ways to rid of the undercover hockey pucks, each effort increasingly complicated but doable.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not. Wow. You could use some lessons on how to take a compliment.”

“Let me—”

“Nope!” Tony hip-checks him away from the countertop when Steve reaches for a gingerbread but Steve’s got quick hands that seriously put Tony to shame. One curls into the hem of Tony’s shirt, tugging him back as the other sneak-thieves a cookie whose head is bigger than its body.

Steve bites into it and thirty-one flavors flit across his face, none of them good. Tony sympathizes with an audible wince and passes him a decorative napkin to spit into.

“These aren’t fit for human consumption,” Steve decides when he’s done wiping down his taste buds.

“Understatement. Did someone pull a salt-sugar switcheroo on you?”

Steve’s expression turns thoughtful and bright. “That’d be awfully convenient. We can go with that if anyone asked.”

“No one’s going to.” Snorting a laugh, Tony takes the baking sheet off of the counter and dumps everything on it into the trash. “They’re better suited for the incinerator, honestly, but it’s too far away.”

“I guess I head out to a twenty-four hour store, buy some ready-made ones. You can’t have Christmas Eve without cookies.”

“Aw, do you still believe in Santa? That’s adorable," Tony says and gets unused dough streaked down his cheek for his trouble.

“That was fair.” Tony nods diplomatically. “Listen, I’ll help you with this. No worries.” When Steve’s brows rise to his hairline, Tony rolls his eyes. “Scale back your surprise, Rogers. Baking is essentially chemistry and my gingerbread people have never required dental surgery after eating so I’ve got that on you.”

The edges come out browner than Tony would prefer but Steve’s expert icing job hides them well enough and once they’re cooled, they’re arranged on a collection of trays that are absolute eyesores and have got to be a joke. The floor is a mess and there’s flour transfer that turns Tony’s sweater into a lost cause but all in all, it’s beyond good.

*

Christmas Eve is exchanging gifts early and Steve crying as he unwraps a restored black and white photograph of Joe and Sarah Rogers coming through Ellis Island more than a hundred years ago. It's the first picture of them he’s ever owned. He tells Tony the story his mother had passed down to him: the camera she’d seen, how startled she’d been by its flash. Eyes like Steve’s are wide and her thin hand clutches her husband's. There’s strength in the angle of her jaw, also so much like Steve.

Christmas Eve is Tony tucking the card he'd written into the back pocket of his pants because he can’t stand to ruin the moment.

*

Christmas is like a flashback and Tony wakes up to a finger whispering across his back.

The Big Dipper again, a Christmas tree that might actually be holly and ivy, a star. It then slowly shivers into a vertical line, a space between that and an ‘L’ followed by an ‘O’, and Tony’s lungs feel like they’re vanishing but his brain is still online and there’s no mistaking what Steve’s writing: _I love you._

“Are you awake?” Steve asks when he finishes the statement that has no formal punctuation.

It’s a ludicrous question because Tony hasn’t been breathing evenly for some time now and there's no way that Steve's ears haven't picked up on that. He turns around, means to try for anything but sounding like an idiot but Steve steals every word from him. He’s looking at Tony like there’s nothing in the world for him but Tony. Eternal seconds click away as Tony soaks the expression in, involuntarily fishmouthing.

It’s not his most sterling moment and the silence sits long enough for Steve to get the wrong idea, his nervous and beautiful smile thinning to a frown that just won’t do. Because Tony recognizes that it’s been exactly six months with Steve, label or no label. It’s been six months with beautiful, incredible Steve who memorizes Tony’s schedule, notes his sleeping habits, and can’t bake for shit. And Tony can't stand the thought of losing him, needs him to know that this has been the best six months of his life. That he wants countless more because since the day he met Steve there's been this feeling--nagging, insistent, nudging--that Tony couldn't find proper words for but he thinks it has something to do with the rest of his life.

“Hey, no, no.” In a surge and taking Steve by the jaw with both hands, Tony kisses him. The first hard, the second less so but equally fierce, and the third is something sweet and soft and seeking before Tony tucks his head into the sheltering crook of Steve’s shoulder. Speaking against his collarbone, Tony says with one last kiss, “I’m a bit of a fuck-up but you might be stuck with me. Wait here.”

“Don’t have anywhere to go.”

Tony gets off the bed, finds his discarded pants, and pulls the haphazardly folded envelope out. With a stammering heart, he knee-walks back across the mattress. He glues himself to Steve’s side where he's sat up and commandeers one of his hands. Tony hands the envelope over. “I heard somewhere that Christmas gifts can be a good stand-in for what you've kept wrapped all year. Would you believe it got lost in the mail?”

Steve flips it around and back. “I don't know. There's no postage stamp as far as I can see. You’re more imaginative than that.”

“Just.” Fingers squeezing Steve’s, Tony exhales shakily, nosing under Steve’s ear. “Open it, please.”

“Can’t exactly do it one-handed.”

Tony reluctantly lets him go but stays close, watching him pull out the card, a clear embossed snowflake on its front and only Tony’s script on the inside.

“You’re in every frame of my future. Love, Tony,” Steve reads and it’s strange to hear the words Tony had pored over for hours said so quickly.

“Frame, picture,” Tony supplies stupidly, his heart running at what has to be light-speed.

“Yes, I got that connection. I take it back. You’re very imaginative when you want to be,” Steve says with a slight laugh that sounds as clogged as Tony feels but his eyes are crinkled at the corners and his smile is happy if a bit confused. “Why didn’t you give this to me last night?”

“Last night was for you. Not for me. And I was too chickenshit. The first Christmas in recent memory where I didn't feel the need to stave off seasonal depression with a descent into gin felt like enough of a miracle,” Tony admits, cuffing Steve’s wrist and then slipping their hands together again. “And you are not allowed to judge me here, Mr. If-There’s-Ever-Anyone-Else-I’ll-Tell-You.”

“I didn’t think that that anyone could be you,” Steve says, hoarse and surprised.

Tony stares at him in wonder. “Steve, that's just...well the encouraging news is that we’re not the first fools to ever be in love. Miscommunication is fairly common. So we've got that going for us.”

“I actually think we might be too excellent at it.”

“But we’re gonna do this anyway, right?”

And before Tony can finish the question, it’s being kissed from his lips. The sort of kiss that causes a shiver to cop a feel up Tony’s spine and coaxes him horizontal. He arches up into the marks that are being sucked at his throat and necklacing his chest, the pin of Steve’s rutting hips on his twitching cock. 

“Tony,” Steve breathes, warm and humid, desperately against the scar in the middle of Tony's chest. “God. I want this. I love you so much. I’ve wanted you, all of you, forever.”

“Show me,” Tony begs, closing his hands at Steve’s jaw, beckoning him closer. He closes the space between them with an insistent kiss, aching for it. It kills him to think of how long he could have had this. “Please. Fuck me, babe. Show me, c’mon.”

Near enough to almost make up the entirety Tony’s vision, Steve nods with a smile so sweet and wide, Tony feels like his face has been shoved into Christmas lights. After a swift kiss, Steve goes to retrieve the lube and a condom--sets aside his card with a care that makes Tony feel swollen--before sitting up between Tony’s spread legs and yanking until Tony’s ass is snug with his pelvis, his knees clamped to Steve’s sides. 

“Hold on to me?” Steve asks, flushed and blue eyes turning black. He's absolutely gorgeous and Tony’s never loved anything or anyone the way that he loves Steve.

Tony hooks his arms around Steve’s neck without question and Steve’s palms open on his back. He flips them over and suddenly Tony is on top with a sound that’s high and intelligible. However, he doesn’t have time to complain because Steve is kissing him while sneaking a clever and lube-slicked hand between them, finger and then fingers pushing huge into Tony, twisting out and back in. Mouth slack around a moan, he fucks himself on fingers that burn thick and seemingly touch everything inside of him. They then angle and press his prostate, stunningly electric and getting Tony to buck and abandon any semblance of restraint. Restless and with only half a mind, he grabs up the condom and tears it open.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” he swears, rolling the condom on Steve and feeling warm at the ruinous groan Steve gives for it. “You need to get in me. I want to come on your dick.”

Steve husks, pulling his fingers out. “You can’t just _say_ \--do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Yeah.” Tony nods and guides Steve’s cock in him, dropping down in a slow friction. Whining, he rocks until he’s fully seated, ass to balls and stuffed thoroughly. He’ll never get over how _big_ Steve is. With a shudder, Tony says, “Yeah, I think I do.”

Planting both hands on Steve’s shoulders, he lifts up and thrusts downward, begins to ride with a rhythm that starts at hastened and rough. And Steve meets his rhythm, fucking up into Tony and repeatedly burying himself in with hard, filthy slaps of sweat-covered skin, grunting with each one.

“Just like that,” Tony gasps out. All at once, his navel pulls in, tremors run along his thighs, and his back bows, his upper half heaving forward. He clutches at Steve with biting nails, cutting soon-to-be welt paths down his arms. Steve hisses and distractedly Tony slurs, “I’m sorry. Sorry. My bad. Just don’t stop.”

Without needing to be told or maybe he just understands the half-formed words Tony devolves into, Steve gets a hand on Tony's cock. He hooks an arm around Tony and with his free hand pulls him off, stroking with gained know-how that’s vicious and gives no quarter. And in soft contrast, he nuzzles at Tony’s temple, nose, and mouth--all along the way, murmuring heartfelt admissions. It takes embarrassingly few of them for an orgasm to truck through Tony, causing him to clench down hard and see stars.

So he misses the better view of Steve coming, instead feels the echo of it through his chest, the warmth that fills the condom with a promise just short of perfect, and Steve’s fingers moving up and down Tony’s ribs. It’s something he does often as if to make sure Tony’s there. Always, always touching Tony.

Quietly to Steve’s still rabbiting pulse, he says. “Don’t ever leave me.”

The answer comes in a soft remix of earlier. “I don’t have anywhere to be but here, Tony.”

**fin**


End file.
